


Sherlock Goes To School

by Notesfromaclassroom



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notesfromaclassroom/pseuds/Notesfromaclassroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crime too close to home sends Holmes and Watson to the seamy underside of...American education.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reunion

**Chapter One: The Reunion**

**Disclaimer:  I make no money from writing about these characters.**

“You didn’t have to come, you know.”

Joan Watson stands at the open double doors of the high school gym looking up at a banner that reads _Welcome Class of 1993_.  Standing beside her, Sherlock Holmes follows her gaze and then peers into the crowded room.

“Doubly redundant, Watson.  You are both stating the obvious and reminding me of something I already know.  Not like you to do that.  Despite your earlier protests to the contrary, you _are_ nervous.”

Holmes darts another glance at her.  As expected, she is rolling her eyes—something she often does when she concedes a point to him in an argument.

Of course, the high school gym _is_ noisy and speaking over the electronic music is an effort. 

Besides, if anyone has reason to be nervous, he does.  After all, these are Watson’s people, her former school companions.  Holmes knows no one here.

Watson stands a moment longer in the open doorway before heading out into the crowd, Holmes following in her wake.  The gym is dimly lit with a decorative mirror ball on the ceiling whirling bits of color on the dance floor. Along one wall is a table with an open punchbowl and platters of what appear from the distance to be ordinary hors d’oeuvres. On the opposite wall is a raised dais where a man considerably younger than the crowd on the dance floor stands behind the usual assortment of musical equipment of mobile disc jockeys. 

A mistake, really, to employ a DJ of a different generation from the partygoers.  His choice of music doesn’t suit their tastes, judging from the scarcity of people actually dancing.

Watson makes her way to the punchbowl and ladles herself a cup.  Taking a tentative sip, she makes a face.

“Off limits for me?” Holmes says, but she shakes her head.

“Only if you object to sucrose,” she says, handing him the ladle. “Lemonade.  Way too sweet.”

“Is it typical for high school reunions to be held at the school itself?  That doesn’t seem a very festive choice of venue.”

“If you didn’t like your school, I guess it wouldn’t be,” she says, taking another sip.  “But I loved high school.  And the gym was where we had all our dances.  Even our prom was here.”

Placing the ladle back in the punchbowl without getting any lemonade, Holmes says, “The gym at _my_ school was a place where many boys were routinely humiliated and bullied, so my associations are understandably different from yours.”

From the corner of his eye he sees her give him an odd look, the kind she sometimes casts his way when he drops a tidbit or two from his past.  Not just curiosity but something else.  Concern, or worry.  Probably an artifact left over from her time as his sober companion.  He’ll have to remember not to raise alarms with comments about unhappy moments in his childhood—references to being bullied, for example, or other dreary truths about boarding school life.

A tall man wearing a blue sports coat approaches the punchbowl and peers at Watson.  For a moment he looks as if he is going to say something to her, but then he turns and walks away.  Setting her cup down on the table, Watson walks in the other direction to an unoccupied spot in the corner.  As she does, people look up and move aside.  Even over the music Holmes hears her name said more than once.

Tonight her clothes are more formal than usual but not as showy as most of the women present, as if she wants to appear serious and professional.

Which of course she does. 

“You’re worried about being snubbed,” Holmes says, leaning close to her ear to be heard over the music.

This time she doesn’t roll her eyes but turns to give him a look full on. She blinks and looks down as the music set comes to an end, the blare of drums and guitars replaced by the hum and buzz of multiple conversations.  From somewhere across the gym, several women laugh loudly.  Someone drops a glass.

“It was in the papers,” Watson says slowly.  “My suspension.  On the news.  Not all of the details, but enough.  People I hadn’t heard from in years, people I thought were friends, sent me…notes.”

“Not nice ones, I assume,” Holmes says, looking around the room.  “Neither the people nor the notes.”

“No,” she says, stumbling over the word. “No, they weren’t.”

He can feel her shifting her gaze to him. 

“As if any of these people can sit in judgment of you.  That woman there,” he says, pointing to a blonde wearing a red satin dress, “hasn’t worked a day since high school, at least not on the books, unless prostitution is now legal in New York, hmm?  And her companion.  The man wearing the knock-off Armani suit?  I know for a fact that he is personally responsible for the failures of two brokerage firms, chiefly after advising their CFOs to invest in what amounted to little more than a Ponzi scheme.  And—“

“How do you know that?  You can’t know that!”

“You’re right, Watson, I don’t.  I was making a point.  No one in this room is any better than you are.  No one here hasn’t made a mistake or two.  The fact that yours was in the papers is the only difference.”

“You read about it.”

A question disguised as a statement. 

“If I did,” Holmes says, finally making eye contact, “I have forgotten it.”

Even in the dim light he sees Watson flush.

For a moment they are both silent and then Watson says, “You never told me how you knew I was coming tonight.  Until you said you wanted to come with me, I wasn’t even sure I would.”

 “I owe you a favor, Watson,” he said.  “In point of fact, I owe you many, but in this particular situation I have an opportunity to pay you back in kind, as it were.  I intend to be your sober companion for the evening—not that you need my services as a sobriety watchdog, but you might welcome my presence.”

He waits a beat and then adds, “Because it makes you nervous to face these people.”

She parts her lips to reply but gives an audible sigh first.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“About your coming?  You received the invitation in the post a month ago—I remember the distinctive school seal in the stack of letters I sorted.  The return address said 20th Reunion Committee, Midwood High School. Later that day the opened invitation was in the small waste bin in the corridor.  By the evening it reappeared on top of a stack of papers I saw you carrying to your room.  It didn’t take much to deduce that you had fished it out because you changed your mind and wanted to make note of the details.  Why did you initially decide not to come?  The embarrassment of facing your former classmates, people who remember you as an excellent scholar and surgeon but have seen you fall.  Why did you decide to attend after all?  Redemption, Watson; something we all crave, whether we admit it or not.”

He hazards a look at her face.  Not a smile, exactly, but something flickers in her expression, visibly lightening her mood.

“I decided to come,” she says, “because of that lady _there_.”

Holmes turns to look.  Sitting next to the raised dais is a woman much older than the other reunion guests. 

“A teacher,” he says, and Watson nods.

“Mrs. Jefferson.  My 12th grade English teacher.  I almost majored in American literature because of her.”

This is a surprise.  Watson spends a great deal of her free time reading—none of it, to Holmes’ knowledge, anything other than nonfiction.  Newspapers, science journals, a popular history text, police reports on occasion, but nothing that could be called proper literature.

As if she can sense his skepticism, she says, “She made reading _fun_.  Before her class, it was just one more thing to get through in school.  After I graduated, we kept in touch.  When—when I left medicine, she was very supportive.”

“How lucky for you that she is here tonight.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Watson says with the hint of a smile.  “The Reunion Committee is honoring her tonight with an award.  It was in the invitation I got.  And _that’s_ why I’m here.”

She takes a step away from him, her motion attracting the attention of Mrs. Jefferson.

“Joanie!”

Mrs. Jefferson starts to rise but Watson waves her back and sits in the folding chair beside her.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Mrs. Jefferson says, reaching over and giving Watson a loose hug.  “I was hoping to see you.”

“You look wonderful,” Watson says.  In fact her teacher looks ill—her skin an almost luminescent pallor, her features bloated, her gray hair short and thin.

“Don’t start lying now,” the teacher says.  “I look as dreadful as I feel.  Getting old; don’t look so alarmed.”

Watson lifts her hand toward him and Holmes takes another step closer.

“Mrs. Jefferson, I want you to meet Sherlock Holmes.  We’re…working together.  For the NYPD.”

“Consultants, yes,” Holmes says.  “Helping out the detectives on some of the more challenging cases.  So nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Jefferson.  Watson talks about you all the time, what an inspiration you have been in her life.  Just the other day she was encouraging me to give William Faulkner another go.  I may have to take her up on it.”

Watson’s expression is unreadable but Mrs. Jefferson smiles broadly.

“Good for you, Joanie.  You could have been a teacher if you’d wanted to.”

A high-pitched squeal of electric feedback pierces the air and Holmes blinks.  On the dais at the standing mike is a heavyset dark-skinned man with short-cropped hair.  The chair of the Reunion Committee, most likely, he leans forward and Mrs. Jefferson says, “Oh, I think this is my cue.  They have some kind of presentation planned.  At least I don’t have to make a speech.”

She stands slowly and Watson rises with her, reaching out a hand to help her up.

“Thank you, Joanie.  Are you going to be here awhile?  I want to catch up.”

“I’ll make sure she stays,” Holmes says, and Mrs. Jefferson nods as she passes.  Then to Watson he says, “I thought she might be concerned that I would be eager to leave—since I am your guest and not a graduate.”

“Testing, testing,” the heavyset man says into the mike.  The people on the dance floor look up expectantly. The hubbub in the gym dies down.  “Welcome again, everyone.  On behalf of the Reunion Committee, I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” Holmes mutters in Watson’s direction.  “As if coming to a party was commendable behavior.”

“Shh,” she says, but before he can answer, the man at the mike continues.

“Now it’s time to present our special guest, someone I think most of you know.  Even if you never had her for English, you remember Ethel Jefferson.  I think she practically lived at Midwood.”

A smattering of laughs ripples through the crowd.  At his side, Watson smiles.

“When I was a senior, she was always here no matter how early I got to school, and I was here lots of mornings early for tutoring.  And no matter how late coach made us stay—“

Another ripple of laughter.

“—she was still here, sitting in the stands watching the basketball teams practice, a stack of papers on her lap, a red pen in her hand.”

“Lots of red pens!” someone calls from the floor and the crowd erupts in more laughter.  The heavyset man waits until the noise recedes before he starts again.

“You might not know it, but Mrs. Jefferson is planning to retire at the end of this year.  I know, I can’t imagine Midwood High without her either.  And I’m sure lots of you have many Mrs. J. stories you can tell.”

He turns to Mrs. Jefferson and she crosses the short distance between them. 

“Mrs. J, the Reunion Committee wanted to honor a teacher who made a difference in the lives of her students, and we voted unanimously that that teacher is you.  We took up a little collection—here it is—and you can spend it on whatever you want.  Take a vacation, do something fun—“

“Buy a Ferrari!” another voice from the floor yells.

“It’s not _that_ nice a gift,” the man says to more laughter.  “But it comes with all the thanks we can give you for all you’ve done for us and for the other students you’ve known over the years.”

The applause is instant and loud and sustained.  Mrs. Jefferson faces the crowd and makes a funny stumbling little bow.

And then with a gasp she crumples to the ground.  In one bound Watson is at the steps, and Holmes watches as she runs across the dais and kneels down at Mrs. Jefferson’s side, her hand darting out, her fingers pressed to Mrs. Jefferson’s neck. 

“Call!” she shouts, but Holmes already has his phone out dialing 911.

By the time the paramedics arrive, most of the class of 1993 has left, the caterers and DJ scurrying to pack up their equipment.  There’s no rush now, sadly.  Watson sits on the floor of the dais beside the body of Mrs. Jefferson, looking as bereft as Holmes has ever seen her.  She doesn’t rise until the medics lift Mrs. Jefferson onto the folding gurney and wheel her out of the gym.

“Let’s walk,” Holmes says when she rejoins him at the outside door.  “The cold air will help us think.”

“I don’t want to think,” Watson says.  “I’m too upset.”

“Exactly why we need to think,” Holmes says, “about why someone at your high school reunion would want your English teacher dead.  Mrs. Jefferson was murdered.”

**A/N:  Hello Elementary fans!  I just discovered the show a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve loved Sherlock Holmes since I was a kid and my mother gave me the collected works of Conan Doyle one Christmas.  As far as I’m concerned, you can’t have too much Holmes, and I love all the iterations currently on the cinema and television.**

**Normally I hang out in the Star Trek fandom, mostly writing fanfiction for the reboot movie but recently branching out into The Original Episodes land.  If you are a Trek fan, check out my profile for the list.**

**I realize this is a new fandom but I’m hopeful that it is a welcoming one—and that the readers here know how valuable their reviews are!  Let me know what you think so far!**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. The Report

**Chapter Two: The Report**

**Disclaimer: No money made here. This is done for love.**

Sherlock Holmes sits hunkered over on the drab worn sofa of the conference room at the precinct headquarters. Joan sits beside him, close enough to feel the sofa shift when he moves.

Which he has been doing a lot since they arrived 20 minutes ago, summoned by Capt. Gregson's promise that they can see the toxicology report on Mrs. Jefferson.

She darts a look in Sherlock's direction. He's staring straight ahead, a deliberate choice not to make eye contact.

"You didn't have to come, you know," he says.

He's quoting her words from the reunion back to her—she knows that, and she knows he knows that she knows. It's something he does often, though whether to illustrate his powers of recall or for her amusement, she isn't sure.

"I know what you're doing," she says, "but I'm fine. I mean, yes, it's upsetting, but if someone killed Mrs. Jefferson, I want to know."

"Someone _did_ kill Mrs. Jefferson," Sherlock says, "which I expect the toxicology report to confirm. Suggesting that you do not have to be here is not kindness on my part, Watson. I simply meant that it might be a more efficient use of your time to wait until the full autopsy. I can look over the toxicology report and relay the information to you."

Joan isn't fooled. It's actually a generous offer, letting her take a pass on reading a report that is bound to be upsetting, no matter what it shows.

"No, really," she says, "I'm okay. I'm just having trouble getting my head around _why_ anyone would want to kill her."

The sofa wiggles as Sherlock scoots forward, his right hand going to his chin, like an unshaven version of Rodin's _The Thinker_.

"A waste of time, really," he says, "to worry about motive before we have information on the _how_ of the murder."

"What do you mean? I thought motive was key in narrowing down suspects."

"Narrowing them, yes, when your pool is half a dozen. But with a teacher, someone in the public eye as Mrs. Jefferson was, the suspects are legion."

He sits back up and turns to look at her for the first time since they sat down.

"For instance, Watson, Mrs. Jefferson was murdered at a class reunion—a reunion where she was scheduled to receive an award that had been announced in advance. Every member of the Class of 1993 is a potential suspect, including you."

Joan starts to protest but Sherlock holds up his palm to stop her.

"Hypothetically, of course, Watson. You know what I mean. Now, if the toxicology report shows that Mrs. Jefferson was killed with a fast-acting poison—a nerve agent such as sarin or potassium cyanide—you might want to avoid spending time with your former classmates, as one of them is most likely the murderer."

"Because fast-acting means it must have been administered at the reunion."

"Precisely," he says, giving her a short nod of approval. "On the other hand, a slow-acting poison like thallium sulfate takes a week or more to be fatal, causing symptoms that are easily confused with normal illnesses."

Joan closes her eyes for a moment to call up the image of Mrs. Jefferson during the reunion. Pale and pasty, her face looking almost doughy—why hadn't she paid more attention to the signs that her teacher was truly ill?

"She looked unwell, but she said she was just getting old," Joan says, a note of self-recrimination in her voice.

"And she may have been right," Sherlock says quickly. "Until we have the data, we don't know what killed her or what the symptoms, if any, were. Once we do know, however, the motive will be clearer. If Mrs. Jefferson was poisoned some time before the reunion, her murderer may have been someone she knew well and spent time with—a family member, for instance, or a disenchanted colleague. Even one of her current students could have been dosing her with arsenic, say. Can't you image a disgruntled teenager offering to get her a cup of coffee—then slipping in a granule of ricin—"

The image is so disturbing that Joan inhales sharply.

"No," she says. "No, I can't. You saw how everyone loved her."

"I heard a single member of the reunion committee give a canned and not very inspired account of his experiences with her in high school. Presumably others shared his positive feelings about Mrs. Jefferson since they voted to take up money for a gift for her. That does not, Watson, mean that _everyone loved her_."

His mockery rankles her. Of course she doesn't mean it literally. She tells him so.

Sherlock rubs his hand along the edge of his jaw and says, "Another possibility, Watson, is that Mrs. Jefferson, well beloved by everyone, may have died by her own hand—"

Again Joan starts to protest, and again he raises his palm to stop her.

"—and the toxicology report may show lethal levels of cocaine or heroin or even prescription medication in her blood, administered accidentally or intentionally. She did not seem the type to abuse illegal drugs, however—my experience as an addict giving me a modicum of intuition about fellow abusers, Watson—nor do I think she overdosed on pain medications. My money is on murder, and as difficult as it is to imagine someone killing such a beloved teacher, the reality is that the human psyche is a dark thing—and anyone is capable of murder. Even you, Watson. Given the right circumstances, the right motivation, the availability of a weapon."

Sherlock's unblinking gaze is almost fevered. Not that his pessimism is unwarranted or untrue, but it feels at that moment like a slippery slope, a philosophical dead end that she needs to redirect him away from.

"But even so," she adds, trying to sound reasonable, "people who didn't like Mrs. Jefferson's _class_ still liked _her_. Oren, for one. He took Mrs. Jefferson's class twice, the second time because he failed it the first time, and he was just as shocked and sad as I am when I told him she had died."

When she mentions Oren's name, something flickers across Sherlock's expression.

"Your brother failed his English class in high school?"

"Lots of people fail classes, Sherlock. That doesn't make them murderers."

Shaking his head like someone bothered by a fly, Sherlock says, "You misunderstand me. I'm not referring to the murder. When I met your brother, I was under the impression that he is, so to speak, the _golden child_ of the family, the son who can do no wrong. Your mother deferred to him in conversation, treated him like the adult he is, spoke admiringly of his work. You, on the other hand, must work hard even now to win praise from your mother—you, who successfully navigated medical school, presumably after being a top-notch student before that."

Feeling her face flush, Joan struggles not to give herself away. As he often is, Sherlock is blunt about things that other people would prefer to ignore.

No, not blunt. _Direct_. There's a difference.

"Well—" she says slowly, but Sherlock tilts his head slightly like someone listening to a distant noise and says, "I find it commendable that you maintain such an open and affectionate relationship with your brother, despite your mother's unjust preference. I do know how it feels to live in the shadow of the golden child of the family—"

She hardly has time to process what he is saying when Capt. Gregson opens the door and comes in. The room is not large but feels larger because the walls are glass from waist high. In addition to the tatty sofa, the furniture consists of a large table and uncomfortable wooden chairs ringing it. The captain steps to the table and drops a manila folder on top.

"Holmes. Ms. Watson," he says by way of greeting. "The report won't be finalized for several weeks, but here's the preliminary."

He steps back from the table and crosses his arms. At her side Joan feels rather than sees Sherlock looking at her, and when she turns, he is, indeed, giving her the kind of intense scrutiny he usually reserves for crime evidence.

"What?" she says.

"Once you know something, Watson, you cannot unknow it."

"What do you mean?"

"Your fondness for Mrs. Jefferson is not in doubt. The two of you shared a history that gives you much pleasure and comfort to recall. This report could, conceivably, alter how you feel about her. If, for instance, she died from a self-administered illegal substance—"

"Sherlock," she says, cutting him off. "I understand what you're doing. But nothing is going to change how I feel about Mrs. Jefferson. She was my teacher and my friend, and I don't give up on my friends if they…fall down."

She looks up then and catches his eye. Something unnamed passes between them—some question asked and answer given—and he says, "Very well."

He places his hands on his thighs and pushes himself up. Joan follows, and they pull out chairs side by side at the table and settle into them. Capt. Gregson continues to stand, though Joan senses him moving around so that he can look over her shoulder.

With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock opens the folder and pulls out the only thing inside, three separate sheets of paper.

"You recognize this, Watson," he says, tapping the first sheet of paper.

Leaning closer to the table, Joan says, "The basic urine and blood screening."

"Correct," Sherlock says, sounding like a teacher giving a quiz. "You notice that the first test for alcohol, amphetamines, barbiturates, and marijuana showed nothing untoward."

He flips the paper back into the folder and slides the second one closer to her.

"And this?"

"The more detailed immunoassay."

"Which works how?"

"It uses specific antibodies to detect various substances," she says, falling back into the role of student with a zest that abashes her when she stops for a moment to think.

_This is Mrs. Jefferson's toxicology report. She shouldn't be feeling energized by looking at it. What does that say about her as a human being—someone who can set aside her feelings during the thrill of discovery._

With a start she looks at Sherlock.

"Bravo, Watson," he says, unaware of her mental gymnastics. "I see you haven't forgotten your medical school chemistry."

"Uh, no," she says, blinking once and then looking more closely at the paper on the table."

"See this," Sherlock says, placing his finger near one of the columns. "Traces of clostridium botulinum."

"Botulism," Joan says. "Lethal in less than a day."

"Eight to 36 hours," Sherlock amends.

"So it wasn't someone at the reunion," Joan says.

"It might not have been anyone at all," Capt. Gregson chimes in. "I've seen hundreds of toxicology reports that show traces of this stuff."

"The captain is right," Sherlock says. "The man-made form of the botulin toxin is fairly routine in medicine."

"When muscle paralysis is beneficial," Joan says, remembering her rotation on an eye ward when she was a resident. Botulin toxin could correct drooping eyelids that interfered with a patient's vision, for instance.

"Just so. And it is also routinely used for cosmetic purposes. Trace amounts would show up on autopsy."

"So she might not have been murdered after all," Gregson says. Joan looks up just as Sherlock pulls out the third paper.

"I might be inclined to agree with you," he says, "except that the dose measured in Mrs. Jefferson's tissue sample is far higher than what is prescribed for therapeutic use. And then there's this."

He places his finger on a graph at the top of the page. The heading on the graph reads _Indicators of Nerve Agents._

Nerve gas. Fast-acting, almost instantaneous death.

Joan gives an involuntary shiver.

"It says inconclusive," she says, feeling a wash of relief.

"In this case," Sherlock says, "inconclusive simply means that the agent can't be identified. It might be sarin, it might be VX, but it is _something_. The possibility of a false positive can't be completely ruled out, though I suspect that the more sensitive tests will tell us what triggered this result."

"I'm confused," Gregson says as Sherlock hands the manila folder back to him. "Why would two different lethal agents show up in the toxicology report?"

Sherlock takes a breath before he answers.

"There are two possibilities," he says slowly. "Either more than one person was trying to kill Mrs. Jefferson, or someone really wanted to make sure she was dead."

**A/N: The first chapter was from Holmes' point of view, but Joan wanted to tell this one. I hope it didn't confuse anyone to switch it up. I tend to go back and forth this way in stories, mostly because I like exploring the different ways the characters see the world. Let me know if that works!**

**Thanks so much to everyone who reads and leaves a review. Your notes help me become a better writer and keep me going!**


	3. Making Lemonade

**Chapter Three: Making Lemonade**

**Disclaimer: Written without any compensation except what you, dear reader, offer in the way of reviews.**

"I may have been wrong," Sherlock Holmes says as he and Watson exit the precinct building and head down the sidewalk. At his side Watson almost stumbles.

"Mrs. Jefferson wasn't murdered?"

"Of course she was. I mean that I may have been wrong that there are two possibilities. I can think of at least four. Possibility Three is that someone in the class of 1993 has been slowly poisoning your teacher and gave the lethal dose at the reunion, hoping to make her death appear to be the result of natural causes. You saw how she looked ill beforehand."

Watson nods and he continues. A crowd of people comes up behind them on the sidewalk and Holmes steps to the side and pauses, letting them pass.

"You see the problem with that theory, naturally."

A flicker of understanding crosses her features as she follows his line of reasoning.

"Anyone with that sort of access to her could have killed her at any time and still made it look like a natural death. Why choose the reunion for the lethal dose?"

"Exactly, Watson. Which leads us to the fourth possibility."

Before he can answer, she says, "Someone _not_ in the class of 1993 wanted to make it look like the class of 1993 was responsible. They assumed the fast-acting poison would show up but not the slow-acting one."

"The perpetrator may not be familiar with toxicology reports. Might, in fact, be an amateur at murder."

They come to an intersection and he angles right. Watson trails for a moment before catching up.

"The most obvious route for the fast-acting poison was through something Mrs. Jefferson ate or drank at the reunion," Holmes says.

"I can call someone on the reunion committee and find out who the caterer was," Watson answers, pulling out her phone. It is endearing, actually, how eager she is to help. He's almost sorry to have to disappoint her.

"No need. I saw the caterer's van outside the school when we first arrived that night. Ah, here we are. Marciano's."

He pushes open a heavy glass door into a stone-fronted office building. Seated behind a desk just inside the door is a puffy-faced woman in a pink suit, her fingers curled over a computer keyboard.

"Sherlock Holmes," Holmes announces as he slides into one of the chairs facing her. "I called you earlier. This is my…fiancée…Joan Watson."

As Watson settles in the chair beside him, he sees her react. A mistake, apparently, not to give her more warning.

"Oh, yes, I got your message, Mr. Holmes. So, when's the happy day?"

"The wedding, you mean?" he says. The woman—Adriana Marciano, according to the nameplate on her desk—frowns slightly and nods.

"We haven't quite decided that. What is next Saturday, Watson? The 5th?"

The caterer's eyebrows disappear into her bangs.

"Oh, we couldn't do anything that soon," she says.

"He means April 5th. That's the…happy day," Watson says, cutting her eyes in his direction.

A good save, that. He'd almost bollixed the whole thing.

"Six months?" Ms. Marciano says, her frown deepening. "That's still cutting it close."

She taps on the keyboard, obviously looking at the appointment calendar for April.

"But you're in luck," she says. "We only have one other wedding scheduled that day, at 4. What time is yours?"

"5:00," Holmes says, and again Watson gives him a glare.

"Or we could make it at 6. Surely you'll be through by then," he says. "How long does an American wedding take? Less than a minute for the clergy—if one is involved—to give a welcome. Four minutes to say the vows. If rings are exchanged, another two minutes. Add seven minutes for music, including the procession in and the recessional out. Then cake and champagne or some such thing afterwards. One hour, tops. Not like a proper English wedding, mind. No finger foods posing as a reception there. Not. At. All. A sit down dinner after the nuptials, three glasses of wine with toasting and other nonsense. An entire evening wasted."

From the corner of his eye Holmes can see Ms. Marciano exchanging a glance with Watson. Watson makes an odd noise—a cross between a huff and a laugh—and says, "He's just nervous."

Holmes opens his mouth to contradict her but her expression makes him pause.

"Well, yes," he says at last. "It's a big decision. Getting married, I mean. Watson and I took quite a while examining all the reasons for and against it before we agreed to tie the knot. Interesting metaphor, that. _Tie the knot_. Puts one in mind of a noose."

The caterer stares at him, her lips slightly parted.

"The food?" Watson says. "We need to talk about what to serve?"

Another endearing trait, the way she rescues him sometimes.

"Indeed we do," he says with exaggerated enthusiasm. "We were recently at an event you catered—the Midwood High Class reunion—"

"That was so sad," Ms. Marciano interrupts, "what happened to that teacher."

"Did you know her?" Holmes says. If she finds his question out of place, she doesn't show it. Instead, she takes her hands from the keyboard and turns to face him directly.

"Me? No, I never met her. But I was there with two of my workers when it happened. After she died, people left so fast that we ended up having to throw away most of the food."

"The menu that night," Holmes says. "I recall some cookies, cut vegetables, a cheese platter. Was that all? Watson and I were thinking we might want the same things."

The caterer looks up at her computer monitor and taps on several keys, obviously calling up different screens.

"They had some fruit and nuts, too, and some finger sandwiches. You know, nothing really fancy. Most of the guests had probably eaten before they came. It wasn't like we were hired to serve a full meal."

"And there was a bar? Did you have a bartender working for you that night?"

At that the caterer purses her lips and shakes her head.

"Are you kidding? In a school gym? No alcohol on the premises, school district's rules when someone uses their facilities. All we can serve are soft drinks."

"Or punch. In point of fact, Ms. Marciano, it is your punch that brought you to the attention of Watson and myself. When we began planning our…wedding…we remembered the lemonade that you served at the reunion. Watson remarked at the time that it was exceptionally sweet."

"Oh, yes," Ms. Marciano says, leaning forward a fraction and looking closely at the computer monitor. "I remember now. We added sugar to the lemonade we served that night. The man who hired us made that request when he came to take our taste tour."

"The name of that person?"

"I'm sorry," the caterer says, her tone changing abruptly. "Exactly why do you need to know that?"

Holmes can sense her starting to shut down, her suspicions raised. Before he can react, he hears Watson take a breath.

"You'll have to forgive Sherlock," she says, putting her hand on his forearm. He jumps at the unexpected contact but hides his surprise by looking away. "I dated one of the reunion committee members in high school. I used to tease him about how much sugar he put in his tea and his lemonade. I mentioned it to Sherlock when we were at the reunion. I'm afraid he got a little jealous."

"I was not jealous," Holmes says, pulling his arm out of Watson's hold. "But after hearing so much about him, I wanted to see him for myself. Reginald Buttrick. Doesn't sound like the name of a star athlete, does it?"

"We weren't hired by anyone named Reginald Buttrick. My contact sheet lists a Steve Colby."

Watson shifts almost imperceptibly in her chair. Not a name she recognizes, then.

"Well, thank you," Holmes says, standing up. "We'll be sure to get in touch with you soon."

As Watson stands up, Holmes hears Ms. Marciano say, "That's it? Don't you want a price list?"

"Price is of no concern," he says as he turns and starts to walk out. Reaching the door, he hears the tattoo of Watson's boots on the floor behind him, the caterer calling out, "If you want me to save that date for you, you need to hurry!"

Back on the sidewalk, Holmes slows down until Watson catches up.

"The name _Steve Colby_ doesn't ring a bell?"

"I don't remember everyone from my senior year, but I can check my yearbook. I think it's in my mother's attic."

"Easier just to Google him," he says with a wave of his hand, and again he has the impression that he's disappointed her somehow. "You recognized the member of the reunion committee who gave Mrs. Jefferson her award?"

"Marcus Lattimore. He was in the band with me my junior year."

"You play a musical instrument, Watson? The flute? Wait, that's not quite it. You began on the flute, but knowing you, you wanted a more challenging instrument, one that most people would not even attempt to learn. The French horn is widely considered the most difficult instrument in a marching band. When your band director asked for volunteers to take it up, you didn't hesitate. At first you thought that giving up the flute was a mistake, but you doubled down and eventually became quite skilled, surpassing everyone's expectations, including yours. Eventually you went on to lead the horn section, driving your fellow classmates as hard as you drove yourself."

The noise of Watson's boots on the concrete stops abruptly and he takes several steps before he realizes that he has left her behind. Holmes turns and sees her standing in the middle of the sidewalk, passersby parting around her.

"Am I right?" he asks, his hands lifted, palms out like a supplicant.

"How could you possibly know that? Tell me. How did you figure all that out?"

"Your mother told me," Holmes says with a little shrug. "The evening we met your brother for dinner."

He resumes walking and as he knows she will, Watson hurries up beside him.

"That's cheating," she huffs, but he says, "What does it matter _where_ I get my information, as long as it is accurate?"

Crossing her arms, Watson starts to push past him. _She's angry?_

"Marcus Lattimore," he calls. "Can you get in touch with him?"

From the tilt of her head he can tell that she's listening—and more than that, thinking about his request. She swivels around suddenly and says, "You think he's connected somehow?"

"I think he's a start. He can tell us who this Steve Colby is and why he wanted to change the lemonade recipe."

"Because that's where the poison was? The murderer covered the taste with extra sugar?"

"More people would have been sickened if it were. You suffered no ill effects, and as I recall, you drank some that night."

"It doesn't make any sense," Watson says. "Whoever made the lemonade sweeter than usual didn't know Mrs. Jefferson very well. She was a diabetic. Sweet lemonade is the last thing she would drink—"

"Diabetic? Watson, are you certain?"

"It wasn't a secret. She got an insulin pump the year I was in her class. I remember her explaining to us how it worked."

The familiar rush as the tumblers in his brain fall into place.

"You've solved it, Watson. At least the reason for the sugar in the lemonade. Why would someone want Mrs. Jefferson _not_ to drink the lemonade?"

As he expects, he sees Watson putting the pieces together. Her face goes cloudy and then clears.

"So they could give her something special to drink. Something without sugar. Something with the poison."

"How well do you know Marcus Lattimore? Other than playing simplified arrangements of classics in the high school band together?"

"Not well. But I can't believe he would want to kill Mrs. Jefferson."

He puts his hand out to stop her from stepping off the curb into the street just as the light changes and the traffic surges forward. For a few moments he falls into his usual habit of cataloguing the vehicles that pass by before the light changes again. Twelve taxis belonging to two different franchises. Two gypsy cabs, one with a faulty muffler. A city bus—strong diesel smell as it rolls past. Twenty private cars, one chauffeured limousine, one pedicab, three courier bicycles. Glancing at his watch, Holmes notes the time—4:32. Ordinarily, Monday afternoons are busy traffic times. He should have seen at least five buses. An accident somewhere earlier on the route holding up the pattern, undoubtedly.

The light changes.

"You can't believe _anyone_ would want to kill Mrs. Jefferson," he says, starting across the street. "Yet someone did. I seriously doubt that your former band mate had anything to do with her murder, but we need to talk to him to find out. I could be wrong."

"That's twice today you've said that," Watson says. "And I have to tell you, as glad as I am that you admit the possibility, it's not very comforting to hear you say it."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! And double thanks if you leave a note!**


	4. The Mission

**Chapter Four: The Mission**

**Disclaimer: I make no money from borrowing these characters and playing with them.**

"Where are we going?" Joan calls out as she grabs her jacket from the coat tree in the hall. Sherlock is already ten paces up the street by the time she catches up.

"How well do you know Marcus Lattimore?" he says, and Joan blinks in surprise.

"Marcus? Not that well. He was in the band only during marching season. Once basketball started, he left to join the team. I think he played point guard. Why?"

"And you haven't been in communication since your days in secondary school together? I just heard from Detective Bell. Apparently your Marcus Lattimore served a short stint in prison after graduation for a burglary conviction. It wasn't the first dark mark on his record, either. Earlier he vandalized a teacher's car and did community service for penance."

Joan feels the hair on the back of her neck rise.

"Mrs. Jefferson," she says, and Sherlock nods.

"He admitted damaging the paint on her car in a fit of anger," he says, "after failing her English class. His college athletic scholarship was revoked and he spent the summer making up his academic credit, receiving his diploma three months after everyone else in the class of 1993. A motive, Watson, something we've been looking for."

"You mean you think he might have killed Mrs. Jefferson because he blamed her? But that happened 20 years ago. Why wait and get revenge now?"

Sherlock purses his lips and waves his hand like a poker player exposing his cards.

"I've no idea. But consider this. Marcus Lattimore was the head of the reunion committee, perhaps even the person who suggested that Mrs. Jefferson receive the award. That guaranteed her attendance at the reunion where he had close access to the teacher who—in his mind—ruined his chances for a better life. As for why now after twenty years? Perhaps like so many people he has been in denial about how much time was passing. The reunion brought into sharp relief what he is missing, how his classmates have moved onward and upward while he has not. You yourself felt the same thing, Watson. As I recall, you were quite ambivalent about attending."

Joan's face flushes, as much from the fast pace Sherlock is setting as from her remembered embarrassment.

"How do you know he hasn't moved _onward and upward_?"

They reach an intersection and Holmes heads to the right, pressing past a knot of workmen carrying a ladder and utility boxes. A few steps further and he points to a low building in the middle of the block. Surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire, it is flanked by an asphalt basketball court where a group of teenagers and young men are engaged in a game so fast and frenetic that Joan winces. She's repaired plenty of ACL's torn in just that kind of pickup game.

"Would someone who has made a successful life for himself be living at a homeless shelter? Marcus Lattimore lists his address as here—the 6th Street Mission."

Squinting, Joan says, "There he is. With the whistle."

Right on cue she hears the whistle blow and the action on the court grinds to a halt. As she and Sherlock reach the open gate, she hears Marcus say, "Traveling!" A few groans, one loud protest, and some obvious jeers meet his pronouncement.

"That's my call," he says. "Now deal with it."

At that moment he looks up and sees her.

"Joanie Watson?"

The basketball players turn and react as well, a swell of murmurs rising up over the traffic noise.

"Umm, mama," a tall man with a red bandana draped around his neck says as she makes her way across the court toward Marcus. At her side she feels Sherlock stiffen.

"Marcus," she says, extending her hand. "This is Sherlock Holmes. We're working with the NYPD investigating the death of Mrs. Jefferson. Can we talk somewhere for a few minutes?"

Looking around quickly at the players, Marcus says, "Sure. Back in a few, guys."

The appreciative murmurs and wolf whistles increase as Joan and Sherlock follow Marcus inside the building.

"You'll have to excuse the guys," Marcus says. "A bunch of young knuckleheads, like I was once."

"Yes," Sherlock says abruptly, his voice echoing loudly in the dark hallway. "It's about that time of your life that we wish to speak."

Marcus pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks the door of a small office, waving Joan and Sherlock inside after flipping on the light. Making her way to one of the plastic chairs facing a metal desk on the far side of the room, Joan practices her observational skills.

First, Marcus himself. Dressed in old sweats and inexpensive sneakers, he looks much as Joan remembers him from high school—tall, dark, his hair clipped close to his skull. He weighs more than he did then—15 pounds at least. No, more. Twenty? Thirty, maybe. She makes a mental note to ask Sherlock later about how to estimate someone's weight.

If Marcus is upset by Sherlock's allusion to his past troubles, he makes no sign. Instead, he plucks a Styrofoam cup from the top of an overturned stack and gestures toward him.

"Coffee, Mr.—"

"Holmes. Thank you, no. Just the answers to a few questions."

Marcus makes eye contact with Joan and lifts the cup a fraction—an invitation. She shakes her head and he puts the cup back on the stack and sits down behind the desk.

Despite living here at the shelter, Marcus has obviously garnered a measure of responsibility if he has an office—or at least access to someone's office. There isn't a nameplate on the desk or any personal photographs on the walls—just a couple of official-looking framed documents. In one corner of the room is an open cabinet with sports equipment inside: a basketball, a baseball bat, some indeterminate netting of some kind. He's probably the custodian in charge of the equipment, then. That would explain the key ring.

In the past Joan would have missed those kinds of details. Now she gives herself a mental pat on the back.

"I'm still in shock about Mrs. Jefferson," Marcus says, settling into the chair behind the desk. "The detective who called said the police are treating her death as a possible homicide. I just can't believe it. Everyone loved her."

" _You_ didn't," Holmes quips. Joan cuts her eyes quickly to Marcus, but his expression doesn't change. "Because of Mrs. Jefferson, you lost your chance to go to college."

"Because of Mrs. Jefferson, I lost my chance to make a _fool_ of myself. Like lots of teenaged knuckleheads, all I wanted out of college was my ticket to the pros. You know how many average players make it to the NBA?"

Sherlock's gaze is glassy, as if he is consulting some internal data bank. Which, Joan thinks, he probably is.

"The odds, I should think, are infinitesimally small."

"Worse than that," Marcus says. "None. And I was an average player. I wasn't interested in learning anything in college. In lots of ways I wasn't ready to be there."

"You damaged Mrs. Jefferson's car when you failed her class," Joan says, and he turns to her and says, "A stupid mistake. I was angry, and yeah, at the time I blamed her. I fell in with a crowd of even bigger knuckleheads for awhile. Ended up doing a little time for my part in some breaking and entering."

"Surely you are angry about that."

Sherlock says it as a statement of fact, but Joan knows what he's doing—setting a trap for Marcus to agree to a motive for murder.

"That was a long time ago," Marcus says, sounding reasonable and not at all distraught. "When I got out of prison, I went to college. Got my social work degree. That's why I started this mission—for the kind of guys I met in prison, men looking for a hand up but not likely to get it as ex-cons."

Joan is suddenly ashamed of what they are doing here—implying that Marcus is a murder suspect. Sighing, she says, "You started this mission?"

"And now I run it. You know, back in high school, lots of teachers gave the athletes in their classes a pass on the hard work. Not Mrs. J. I didn't do the work and I failed, simple as that. One of those blessing in disguise things, you know? I was never going to be a good enough ball player, and I wasn't ready for college when I left high school. Didn't know what I wanted to do until later. So—if anything, I'm grateful to Mrs. J, not angry. I'm doing work that matters right here."

As he speaks Marcus Lattimore's voice becomes rough-edged with emotion. Without thinking, Joan darts her hand across the desk and places her hand on his for a moment.

For that same moment and then another the room is silent. Risking a glance at Sherlock, Joan jumps. He is watching her closely—no, not really watching _her_ , but using her as the backdrop for his glare, the way he often does when he is lost in thought. With a start, he comes back from wherever his mind has been wandering and says, "Well, yes. Be that as it may, evidence suggests that someone wanted Mrs. Jefferson dead. Who besides yourself wanted her to come to the reunion?"

Marcus frowns slightly and tips his head to the side.

"I don't remember anyone _not_ wanting her to come. Five of us planned the reunion, and we came to a consensus about inviting her and giving her the award. I probably suggested it, actually, and the others agreed."

If Marcus has anything to do with Mrs. Jefferson's death, he doesn't act like a guilty man. To her surprise, Joan is both relieved and disappointed—relieved that Marcus isn't the killer. Disappointed that they still don't know who is.

Joan sees the wheels in Holmes' head spinning in frustration, his fingers drumming a beat on his thighs.

"Was Steve Colby one of the reunion planners? We saw his name on the catering order."

Shaking his head, Marcus says, "Colby? No. He's not a graduate at all. Works for a book company—a textbook company. He offered to pick up the tab for the food for the reunion. Well, not him personally, but the company. That's not unusual. We had lots of sponsors to help pay the expenses of the reunion."

"I'll need the name of the company he works for and any contact information you have," Sherlock says briskly.

"Sure," Marcus says, "but you don't think he's involved in any way, do you? I'm not even sure he knew Mrs. Jefferson."

"I doubt he is a suspect," Sherlock says, "but he might lead us to someone who _did_ know her—at least enough to have a reason to wish her harm."

Across the desk Joan senses Marcus react—a shift in his posture, a tiny shrug of his shoulders. Something unnamed flickers through his expression.

What did Sherlock say the other day? That the human face is like a…penis? With a mind of its own?

She takes a closer look at Marcus' face.

"You know someone who _would_ wish her harm."

She startles herself as well as Marcus when she blurts it out. He sighs heavily and nods. Sherlock leans forward toward the desk.

"I hope I'm wrong," Marcus says, fishing his old-fashioned flip phone from his pants pocket. "But when he didn't show up for her funeral, I started to wonder."

Opening his phone, he taps on several keys before holding it up so that Joan and Sherlock can see the screen.

"Here. Ray Simmons, Mrs. Jefferson's son. I have his number."

As Sherlock whips out his own phone and copies the contact information, Joan says, "I didn't know she had a son. I can't remember her ever mentioning him."

That Mrs. Jefferson has a son is astonishing. Worse is what it says about Joan—that she assumed she knew her teacher when she didn't, that Mrs. Jefferson's personal life wasn't even part of the equation in their friendship.

"I don't know if she ever officially adopted him or not. Ray was one of her students a few years ago. Good kid, but troubled. Lived in lots of foster homes before Mrs. J took him in. I knew him through my work at the county department of social services. He'd hang out here sometimes on the weekend, playing ball or helping with the youth program."

"What makes you think he would kill Mrs. Jefferson?" Sherlock says as he slides Marcus' phone back across the desk.

Shifting in his chair, Marcus says, "Like I said, he's a good kid, mostly. But he kept getting caught back up with a rough crowd, getting busted for possession and ending up in rehab. I'm not saying that he's dangerous, but ex-junkies aren't always reliable."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Sherlock says, his expression set to neutral. "I assume his past indiscretions do not include violence or you would not have said twice that he is a _good kid_ —"

At his tone—such an accurate mimicry of Marcus' own that it almost sounds like sarcasm—Joan cuts her eyes at him. He catches her look and blinks before continuing.

"However, even _good kids_ can do violence if a sufficient motive presents itself. Money, for instance. Is her son employed?"

"Don't know," Marcus says. "He's had a job in the past, but right now? I can't say."

"You said he was not at Mrs. Jefferson's funeral."

"At first I thought he might have been too upset to come, but I haven't been able to get in touch with since then, either."

"This address in your phone contacts? This is also where Mrs. Jefferson lived?"

"I think so. I hadn't heard Ray mention living anywhere else."

Sherlock is suddenly on his feet.

"Come on, Watson," he says, starting for the door, and Joan gives Marcus what she hopes is an apologetic smile.

"We'll be in touch," she says, getting up and following Sherlock out.

He stays several paces ahead of her down the hall until they reach the outer door, when he pauses so abruptly that she almost collides with him.

"Watson," he says, pivoting around to face her. Instinctively she takes a step back out of his personal space but he follows her, one pace forward, and she forces herself to stop. They are so close that she catches a whiff of him—his shampoo, or his clothes soap, or perhaps even cologne, though it doesn't seem in character for him to use any. His eyes look fevered, the timbre of his voice so intense that she has a fleeting image of a rubber band pulled dangerously taut.

"What is it?" she says, genuinely alarmed.

"Do you think you could ever do harm to your mother? When she is especially provoking, for instance? Raise your hand against her, perhaps? Or if you had a weapon, something more?"

"Of course not! Why do you ask?"

"Mrs. Jefferson's son. Is he a likely suspect? What are the odds that an addicted son could harbor such resentment and anger that he could kill his own parent? Hmm?"

"I don't know—" Joan falters, but Sherlock is already stepping away, his words cast over his shoulder as he heads outside.

"I do, Watson. The odds are very good indeed."

**A/N: This series continues to delight me as a viewer! I hope you are delighted as well as a reader! Thanks for letting me know what you think so far.**


	5. Looking for Ray

**Chapter Five: Looking for Ray**

**Disclaimer: Not my characters; just my mischief.**

From where he stands on the sidewalk, Holmes watches as Captain Gregson knocks on the door of Mrs. Jefferson's modest brick townhouse. As expected, nothing happens. The captain raps his knuckles again on the wooden door.

"I'll check around back," Lieutenant Bell says, descending the four steps from the porch to the ground. He ducks down the narrow walkway separating the townhouse from a small duplex. A narrow neatly kept strip of grass runs along the front and side, a rollout garbage bin sitting on a concrete pad to the left of the door.

"You're sure he's here?" Captain Gregson says, making eye contact with Holmes.

"Watson and I came by two hours ago," Holmes says. "The bin was at the street. Now it is in its proper place."

"The sanitation workers could have rolled it back after they emptied it."

"Rubbish collection is in the morning on this street. Note the sign at the curb alerting residents to the schedule. Also note that although Mrs. Jefferson died two weeks ago, her grass has been recently trimmed."

"Lots of people have a yard service they pay by the month," Captain Gregson says. "Mrs. Jefferson could have paid up in advance."

_True, of course. By itself, the cut grass says little. However—_

Holmes waves his hand to include Mrs. Jefferson's steps and the surrounding area.

"No mail in the box, no unread newspapers on the porch. Indeed, no trash of any kind around her home. Yet if you look at the other townhouses on this block, you see evidence of the windstorm that affected this area last night after 9 PM. Paper, leaves, even in the case of her immediate neighbor, a small branch of a tree on the bottom step. Was Mrs. Jefferson's home somehow exempt from the effects of the storm? I think not. Someone cleaned up the debris this morning and rolled the bin back after the dustmen came by."

"A neighbor could be keeping an eye on her place for her," Watson says, the first time she has spoken since they arrived at Mrs. Jefferson's house. Something about being here upsets her—had upset her earlier when they came by.

She's grieving the loss of a favorite teacher, of course. But as the days since Mrs. Jefferson's death have turned into a week and now two, Watson seems to be lapsing into a different kind of melancholy, one that feels disquieting and familiar.

_Grief over an unjust and unexpected death—fueled by guilt and anger._

Familiar indeed.

"A neighbor would clean his own home up too, wouldn't he? Yet Mrs. Jefferson's is singularly tidy. No, her son is here."

Lt. Bell comes around the side of the house, frowning.

"You found nothing," Holmes says, and the lieutenant looks up as Captain Gregson joins him on the sidewalk.

"Nobody's home," Lt. Bell says. "I looked through the windows in the back. Didn't see anything out of order. No lights on. I think our suspect has skipped town."

"He's here now," Holmes says, pointing to one of the upstairs windows. "That curtain was open this afternoon. Now it's closed."

"If he's here," Lt. Bell says, "why isn't he answering the door?"

"Because he's no fool," Holmes says. "He sees the police. If he hadn't realized he is a suspect before, now he knows he is. Marcus Lattimore said that Mrs. Jefferson's son has a history of trouble with the law."

"Yeah," Captain Gregson says. "Drug possession, drunk and disorderly, that kind of stuff. You're saying he's gun shy because we're here."

"It would seem so."

Holmes knows Gregson well enough to anticipate what he will do next. Without more evidence, he can't get a search warrant. His next best option is to stake out the house and catch Ray Simmons coming or going and convince him to come in for questioning.

Time-consuming tedious work.

He glances at Watson and sees her coming to the same conclusion, a pained look on her face.

Pushing past the captain and Lieutenant Bell, Holmes takes the steps up to the small porch two at a time and pounds his fist on Mrs. Jefferson's door.

"Ray Simmons!"

Craning his neck, Holmes shouts again.

"We know you are here! The NYPD has several questions for you. We can discuss them inside, or I am fully prepared to shout them to you in public. Your decision, really."

As he pauses to take a breath, Holmes hears the faint vibration of someone walking across a wooden floor inside the house. In another moment, the lock snaps back and the door swings open.

A petite young woman dressed in a bright pink kurti over skinny jeans and heels, a floral scarf pinned over her hair as a hijab, stands in the doorway.

"Yes?" she says, frowning. Her eyes travel past Holmes and her expression changes suddenly. "Joanie?"

"Daria?"

Turning slightly, Holmes watches as Watson makes her way up the steps, Captain Gregson and Lieutenant Bell following closely.

"What are you doing here?" the young woman—Daria—asks. Holmes opens his mouth to answer but Watson answers before he can.

"This is Captain Gregson and Lieutenant Bell from the NYPD, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We're looking for Ray Simmons. Does he live here?"

"He's asleep. Can I help you with something?"

The captain moves forward and says, "Miss—"

"Massoud. What's this about?"

"Captain," Watson says quickly, "this is Daria Massoud. We trained together as—"

Her words tumble together and stop abruptly as she darts a glance at Holmes. It's touching, actually, her care not to embarrass him in front of Captain Gregson and Lieutenant Bell. And totally unnecessary, considering what she's already told the captain, and which he has undoubtedly told the lieutenant.

"Sober companions," Holmes finishes for her. She raises an eyebrow in his direction and he raises one back.

_See? Nothing to hide._

"Well, yes," she says, looking back to the young woman standing in the doorway. "The NYPD is treating Mrs. Jefferson's death as a homicide. Captain Gregson has some questions for her son."

"That's a relief," Daria says, leading the way into a small living room. "Ray's been so distressed. He thought no one was taking him seriously."

"I don't take your meaning," Holmes says as Daria settles on one end of the sofa and Watson sits in an adjacent chair. "Who isn't taking him seriously?"

"No one. He's been saying all along that his mother's death was suspicious, that someone needed to look into it."

Pulling out a reporter's tablet and flipping it open, Captain Gregson says, "You're saying Ray Simmons has talked to the police?"

"I don't know about the police," Daria says. "But he's been very vocal about it in rehab."

Watson leans toward Daria and says, "Rehab? When was he in rehab?"

"He called me right after his mother died, said he was checking himself in until he could keep his head on straight. He just came home two days ago."

"You have an established relationship," Holmes says. "You've worked with him previously."

Daria nods.

"Almost a year ago, the first time he was in rehab. When he came out I stayed with him for a couple of months, lived here with him and Mrs. Jefferson. He was doing so well, too, until all the trouble started."

"Trouble?" Captain Gregson says. "What kind of trouble?"

"I'm not sure," Daria says. "Something about his mother and school. Until this year, she wasn't even thinking about retiring, but Ray said she was getting beaten down."

"Is Mr. Simmons currently employed?" Holmes says, and Daria shakes her head. "This house? Is he going to continue living in it?"

"I guess."

"And who is paying your expenses as sober companion, Ms. Massoud? Or the expenses for this house? Are you aware of Mr. Simmons' financial situation?"

Daria sighs and sits back, crossing her arms, a defensive posture.

"Sherlock," Watson says, deliberately tilting her head at him to catch his eye, "that's private information. Even if Daria knows, she can't tell you that."

"She can if that information is being used to shield a murderer."

Daria uncrosses her arms and says, "You aren't accusing Ray—"

"I have no idea who killed Mrs. Jefferson," Holmes says, "but Mr. Simmons was so distressed by his mother's death that he feared relapse to the point of checking himself into rehab. Not an unusual reaction to grief, you might say, but it could also be a result of guilt from having killed the one person who always supported him, who continued to support him even though his employment record has been spotty at best. I haven't examined Mrs. Jefferson's will, but teacher retirees can draw a pension, one perk for accepting poor financial compensation during their working years. In New York public service employees can will part of their pensions to survivors—and while that might not be a princely sum, it could be enough to tempt a desperate heir—an addict, perhaps, who has been unable to piece his life together in any meaningful way—to murder."

A shuffle and a cough—and Holmes looks up to see a disheveled man leaning on the doorframe. Ray Simmons, obviously.

Like most addicts Holmes knows, Ray Simmons has the lean, ascetic build of someone who has gone through long spells of ignoring food in favor of his drug of choice. Dark hair lapped over his ears, his face unshaven, he blinks and sniffs, like someone waking up in a fog.

"What's this?"

With a fluid motion, Daria is on her feet and moving toward him, her protective stance unmistakable. Something more than a professional relationship? The question makes Holmes oddly uncomfortable.

"The police have some questions," she coos, one hand touching Ray's shoulder. He nods and follows her back to the sofa.

"About time," he says. "He made her life hell for the past few months. You can't tell me he isn't behind this."

"Who is?" Captain Gregson says, and Ray rubs his brow.

"That guy," he says slowly, "the principal at her school. All these years she's been winning awards, her students winning awards, and suddenly they say she isn't competent in the classroom? Her principal gives her two bad evaluations and says she has to attend special professional development? Give me a break."

"Why would a school principal murder someone after giving her an unsatisfactory evaluation? What would he have to gain? You, on the other hand, Mr. Simmons, have much to gain from your mother's death. Her pension, for starters. Money you can spend as you wish," Holmes says, and Ray Simmons glowers at him.

"If you're suggesting that I killed her—"

"I'm suggesting you had something to gain from her death."

Ray Simmons huffs and gives a mirthless laugh.

"I'm not even in her will. She left instructions that everything is to be sold, the money given to a scholarship fund at her school. Don't believe me? I'll give you the name of her lawyer."

If Ray Simmons has anything to do with Mrs. Jefferson's death, he hides it well, despite Holmes' attempt to get him to rise to the bait. His affect is consistent with someone grieving a loss—visible marks of sorrow and even anger in his expression. Dark circles under his eyes. A tremor and lowered register in his voice when he mentions his mother.

Shifting gears, Holmes says, "Why do you suspect her principal? Did she say anything about feeling threatened by him?"

Ray Simmons shakes his head slowly.

"Not physically," he says. "But he was pressuring her to leave. She challenged his authority and he didn't like it."

"But she _was_ leaving," Watson says, and Ray Simmons turns his gaze to her. "If that was what her principal wanted, he got it. Why would he kill her?"

"Maybe she knew something," Holmes says. "Maybe she had information about him that incriminated him somehow."

"A high school principal? Like what?"

Captain Gregson's tone is frankly skeptical.

"Unknown," Holmes says. "You said your mother had gotten two unsatisfactory evaluations this year?"

He glances at Ray Simmons before continuing.

"And you believe those evaluations were punishment rather than accurate indicators of her performance?"

"She wasn't just a good teacher," Ray says vehemently. "She was a great one."

"Watson? You were once Mrs. Jefferson's pupil. How would you characterize her as a teacher?"

Clearly Watson is caught off guard by his question. Her face flushes and she blinks rapidly.

"She was wonderful," she says at last. "She'd give us something to read and then make us pick it apart and debate it. Books really came alive when we dug into them that way—those characters jumped off the page and were like real people in our discussions. And she'd make us write these incredibly complicated argument papers—and rewrite them until they were perfect. It was maddening, really, but it taught me things I've used ever since, like how to read and write carefully."

"Not easy stuff to evaluate," Holmes says, and Watson lifts her eyebrows.

"I guess not."

"So the principal might not have had punitive motives but could simply have been wrong about her teaching."

"Maybe—" Watson says, her nose wrinkled in thought.

"No!" Ray Simmons' voice echoes in the room. "It was more than that! It started when the _Times_ released the teacher rankings. She was upset when that happened and wrote to the paper to complain. After her letter was published, that's when the principal jumped on her case."

"Teacher rankings?" Lieutenant Bell says, and Holmes pulls out his phone. Now that Ray Simmons mentions it, he recalls the kerfuffle in the press a year ago.

"Here," he says, reading the article he pulls up. "Last February the _New York Times_ published the results of teacher evaluations in the city, ranking teachers from highest to lowest scorers. It's a move favored by the new school reformers in this country."

"School reformers?" Captain Gregson says, and Holmes calls up another screen on his phone.

"The school reform movement in this country dates from 2001 with the passage of what has become known as the No Child Left Behind Act. In exchange for federal monies, states were required to measure student achievement by giving regular standardized tests—despite concerns that such tests were poor indicators of genuine learning. The law mandated 100% proficiency on those tests in American schools by the year 2014, with each school district setting increasing incremental goals known as Adequate Yearly Progress. A ridiculous notion, of course. The mandate was never achievable, and the penalties for not making AYP were draconian. Teachers were fired, schools closed. Some districts resorted to cheating, most recently Atlanta, Georgia, where 35 educators were indicted for changing student test scores."

"What does that have to do with Mrs. Jefferson's principal and the rankings published here?"

"Those same standardized tests were not only used to measure student achievement but have become part of the way teachers are assessed. Again, you might ask how tests of questionable validity can be used this way, but that is one of the newest permutations of the school reform movement. One, I might add, that statisticians and psychometricians decry."

"Are you saying Mrs. Jefferson's evaluation was flawed because it was based on her students' standardized test scores?"

"I am saying that standardized tests are neither reliable nor valid ways to tell if students are learning—at least not learning more than mere content. Critical thinking, for instance, is very difficult to measure. Yet those same tests are now used in a teacher's annual evaluation."

With a flick of his thumb, Holmes calls up the _Times_ archives and taps until he finds Mrs. Jefferson's ranking.

"If Mrs. Jefferson objected to the way the rankings were being used, it wasn't because her own was low. See? She was rated one of the best teachers at Midwood. Her objections may have been based on principle rather than any personal grievance she had with them."

"But her evaluations this year were negative—"

"Which seems to support Mr. Simmons' contention that she was being punished somehow. While the evaluations are based on standardized test results, administrator observations also factor in. Is her principal new to the school?"

"I don't know," Ray Simmons says. He leans back heavily on the sofa and Daria reaches up again to touch him, this time placing her hand on his forearm. Holmes quickly looks away, feeling like an intruder.

"Then one thing is clear," Holmes says, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"Really?" Captain Gregson says. "Because I can't even begin to see where you're going with this."

"I'm going," Holmes says, moving toward the door, "to school."

**A/N: Okay, sorry to throw so much information about school reform in America at you. I hope I didn't lose you on the way.**

**Thanks to everyone in this fandom for being so supportive! It's a pleasure to read and write stories here! Thanks for letting me know how I'm doing.**


	6. Phlürb

**Chapter Six: Phlürb**

**Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, but I'm having lots of fun giving them trouble.**

"You're late!"

The secretary sitting behind the desk in the crowded front office of Midwood High School waves her free hand toward a line of students standing behind a computer. Her other hand holds a phone to her ear, her attention divided.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says, and the secretary nods and points again to the computer.

"Say that again," she says into the phone, darting a warning glance at Sherlock. "I couldn't hear you."

"I think she wants us to sign in," Joan says _sotto voce_ into Sherlock's ear. "Over here."

Leading the way to the computer, she watches the students ahead of her typing in their names. A small boxlike printer contraption hooked up to the computer then spits out a slip of paper. With a sudden insight, Joan knows what it is.

"Tardy excuses, early dismissal permissions, visitor passes," she says as the student at the keyboard takes his paper and steps away. "See? Security since Columbine. You can't just walk into an American school these days."

She moves swiftly to the computer, types in her name, and watches as a bright yellow stick-on badge chugs out of the printer. As she peels off the paper backing and presses the badge to her shirt, Sherlock leans forward and types. Soon he has his own badge and is facing the secretary, still on the phone.

"Prom tickets go on sale next Monday," the secretary says into the phone, her free hand now sifting through papers on the desk in front of her. "No, your daughter will have to wait until they go on sale. No, there's no discount that I know of. You'll have to talk to the faculty sponsor in charge, Mrs. Lenhart. Yes, I'm sure—"

"Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson to see—"

"Mrs. Lenhart is in class right now but you can leave a message," the secretary says into the phone, raising her eyebrows and glancing from Sherlock to Joan.

Finding the paper she is looking for, the secretary holds it up for Sherlock to take. He does, and with a shrug towards Joan, he walks to the glass doors leading to the hallway. A buzz as the secretary hits the control and the door lock snicks open.

"Where are we going?" Joan says as Sherlock takes off at a fast clip into the crowd of students passing by. "I thought we were here to see the principal."

"We shall," he says over his shoulder. "Eventually. Apparently the secretary mistook us for substitute teachers. This gives us an opportunity to speak more freely to Mrs. Jefferson's colleagues."

He holds up the paper and reads aloud, passing a knot of students burdened with bookbags.

"We are subbing for John Simpson. Or one of us is. Rubbish security system, letting us both through. His first class of the day is college prep physical science. Second block, applied physics. B lunch. Here's the bell schedule. A note about a planned fire drill at 2. Bus duty in the afternoon, though I strongly suspect we will have been ferreted out by then. That is, unless the actual sub never does arrive."

"Sherlock, we can't just walk into a classroom and—"

"Here it is. C hall. We're looking for room 104."

C hall is lined with lockers, though only a few students have them open. The others are making their way through the milling crowd, some with determined looks but most ambling and chatting and listening to music through ubiquitous white earbuds.

"Everything looks so small," Joan says, and Sherlock darts her a look.

"Indeed," he says. "Not an unusual reaction when adults return to the familiar stomping grounds of their youth. Ah, here we are."

A tall boy with a buzz cut stands in the doorway of room 104.

"Is Mr. Simpson out today? You the teacher?" he says, but Sherlock says nothing as he slips past him into the classroom. With an apologetic look, Joan follows.

Already the room is almost full of students sitting or standing around their desks. Running through the checklist she knows Sherlock will quiz her on later, Joan takes a mental snapshot of the room. Six rows of five student desks, gray linoleum tops and metal legs. Around three of the classroom walls are waist-high counters with tall backless stools tucked under the lip, presumably the right height for looking through microscopes or doing simple experiments.

On the fourth wall is a long white dry-erase board, and beside it a large mounted smartboard that allows teachers and students to manipulate projected computer images. Although they are relatively new, Joan has used one before—when she was making presentations in the hospital conference room.

She pushes those memories away and tries to focus.

In one corner of the room is a teacher's larger desk. Sherlock makes his way there now, his eyes roaming over the chaotic mess piled on top.

"Are we having our test today?"

Joan turns and sees a petite girl with bright pink hair like cotton candy standing at her side.

"Um, your regular teacher is out, so I don't think so—"

"Who's that?" the girl says indicating Sherlock with a flick of her head.

"He's the, um, guest speaker," Joan says, trying to catch Sherlock's eye. Instead, he lifts his hands in the air and claps loudly. The students respond immediately.

"What the—"

"Hey, the bell hasn't rung yet!"

Sherlock continues to clap and the noise slowly subsides as students find their seats. As the last one sits, a buzzer sounds for the start of class.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he says, walking to the front of the room, "and this is my assistant, Ms. Watson. Before we start, I want to ask you a few questions."

"Where's Mr. Simpson?" someone calls from the back of the room, the tone of voice unmistakably challenging. Joan tries to identify the speaker but can't. Sherlock, on the other hand, takes a step forward and says, "I'll answer your questions after you answer mine. Yes, you, the boy reading the text from the girl sitting two rows over, the one watching you closely as you glance at your phone screen. Her. The young woman wearing Gucci jeans and a faux leather jacket. Not a love note, considering how unhappy she appears. More likely an inquiry about why you were being so attentive to another student—perhaps to the dark-haired girl I saw you chatting with in the hall right before class began."

The boy flushes hard as the other students whoop loudly.

"Oooh!"

"Mr. Holmes—" Joan says, though at that moment she isn't sure what she will say. _That he shouldn't embarrass students this way, that being here—in this classroom—serves no purpose?_

"Now," Sherlock says when the catcalls die down, "I need to know if any of you were students of Mrs. Ethel Jefferson."

A ripple flutters around the room—whispers and shuffles—and two students raise their hands. A third says, "Why do you want to know?"

"My turn first," Sherlock says. "Then I'll answer your questions, remember? Did you like her class? Did she get along with the other teachers?"

A heavyset boy dressed in hunting camouflage fatigues answers.

"She was cool. She never made us do nothing."

"Including learning the grammatical rules concerning double negatives," Sherlock says. More laughter. "Does someone _not_ interested in making a joke wish to respond?"

"She was nice," a girl on the front row says at last. "It's really sad that she died."

"And the other members of the staff? Did they seem sad as well?"

No one says anything, though Joan sees the students looking at each other. Finally the boy in camouflage says, "You said you'd tell us what this is all about."

Taking a breath and pressing his palms together, Sherlock nods.

"Indeed I did," he says. "The police are investigating Mrs. Jefferson's death as a possible homicide. A murder."

Before he can continue, the students start chattering.

"If you observed—" Sherlock starts and then pauses, waiting for the noise to subside. In a moment it does. "If you observed anything out of the ordinary in the weeks leading up to Mrs. Jefferson's death, you should share that information with the police. Or you can share your thoughts with me or Ms. Watson before we leave."

Burbles of "what's he talking about?" and "did he say the police?" spring up around the room. Joan moves forward to stand by Sherlock.

"I graduated from Midwood twenty years ago," she says, and hearing a new voice, the students fall silent and train their attention on her. "Mrs. Jefferson was my teacher, and if someone did kill her, I want to find out who. If you are aware of anyone at all who might have wanted to hurt her—"

She lets her voice trail off, but none of the students say anything. Sherlock's hope that they might be a source of information looks like a dead end.

"We should probably go now," she says to him.

"What about our test?" the girl with cotton candy pink hair says. "You're the sub, aren't you?"

Immediately the hubbub starts again.

"We can't leave the class in need of adult supervision, Watson," Sherlock says, angling away from the students. "I suggest you check out the teachers' lounge, or wherever the faculty who are not currently on duty congregate, while I wait for the sub to arrive. I may be able to prompt the students who knew Mrs. Jefferson to remember something of value. Divide and conquer. Not a bad plan, actually. I'll catch up with you shortly."

"You sure? Just leave you here?"

"I am unafraid, Watson. Yes, I realize that American teenagers can be formidable, but I will manage."

As she starts for the door, she hears him say, "Now, about that test. Tell me what you have been studying with Mr. Simpson."

Without students in the hall, Joan finds it easier to navigate. For a moment she stands still and orients herself. If the teachers' lounge is where it was when she was a student, she needs to head to the right, back towards the main office.

The overhead fluorescent lights cast everything in harsh relief. As Joan walks down the hall, she peeks into open doors and listens to the murmur of students and teachers. If she continues down this hall to the end, she will run into the bandroom where she and Marcus Lattimore used to practice.

A thin wail of a horn catches her attention. It might be fun to take a look inside….

"Can I help you?"

The voice is not quite angry, but almost. Joan jumps slightly and sees a short Asian woman with graying hair stepping out of a utility closet, a broom in her hand.

"Mrs. Shen?"

"Do you have permission to be on this hall?"

Tapping her name badge, Joan says, "Mrs. Shen, it's Joan Watson."

Mrs. Shen squints and leans forward.

"Joan? Mary's Joanie?"

Joan feels a flood of relief. Mrs. Shen was a custodian at Midwood even when Joan was a student. Both Mrs. Shen and her mother are in the same Chinese social club that meets once a month to discuss popular novels and gossip and play mahjong.

"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Shen asks.

Suddenly Joan's presence feels absurd and difficult to explain. Blushing, she says, "I'm working with a consultant for the NYPD. We're here investigating the death of Mrs. Jefferson."

"Investigating? A heart attack?"

"She may not have died from a heart attack," Joan says, glancing around as a student passes by. "We're trying to find out if anyone she worked with—anyone here—might have wanted to kill her."

"You're joking! Why is a surgeon working with the police anyway?"

"I'm not practicing medicine anymore. I'm working as a...consulting detective."

Joan glances away but not before she sees Mrs. Shen's brow furrow.

"Your mother didn't say anything," Mrs. Shen says. Joan sighs and resists the temptation to raise her hands to her flaming cheeks.

"Well," she says at last, "it's all still new. But right now you can help me. Were you aware of any conflicts Mrs. Jefferson might have had with any of the other staff? With Mr. Cho, for instance? Someone suggested that he might have wanted her to leave."

"Hunh," Mrs. Shen says. "What's the word? Whippersnapper. Cho's a young kid. Came in here this year with all these ideas. Made a lot of people mad, not just Ethel. She was just more vocal about it. But you knew her, didn't you? She didn't mind saying what she thought."

Setting the broom against the wall, Mrs. Shen moves closer to Joan and lowers her voice.

"But you don't think he killed her, do you?"

"We're just asking questions," Joan says. "We don't have any particular suspects in mind."

It's not quite the truth, but Joan is suddenly shy about revealing anything more.

"In fact," she adds, "I was on my way to the teachers' lounge to see if anyone there has some information."

"Oh, it's not down here anymore," Mrs. Shen says, moving back a step. "It's in the new wing past the cafeteria. On the other end of the building. You need me to show you?"

"Past C hall? I think I can find it. Thanks! I'll tell my mother you said hello."

Giving what she hopes is a confident smile, Joan heads down the hall back to the room where she left Sherlock. Slowing her gait, she tilts her head and listens just out of view of the open door.

She hears his voice, his tone the one she calls "Professor Holmes," didactic and swift and punctuated with high notes for emphasis.

"Yes, as you explained so well, Jeffrey, Newton's Third Law of Motion makes clear that force doesn't exist in isolation. When you push against something, it pushes back. This force actually has a name. If you haven't already learned it, write this down. Phlürb. P. H. L. U. R. B. The U has an umlaut over it, just so."

As he speaks, Sherlock's voice fades slightly and becomes muffled. Taking a step forward, Joan sees the whiteboard come into view, and standing facing it, Sherlock is drawing a vertical arrow pointing down with a blue marker.

"This," he says without turning around, "is an action. And this," he says, drawing another arrow, this one pointing upward, "is the reaction, the phlürb. Not just in science, but in everything. It's quite simple, really. No matter what you do, there are consequences. You might think you are working in isolation, but phlürb is at work, reaching back, connecting with you in ways you cannot imagine."

Joan comes abreast of the open doorway and Sherlock looks up at her.

"Or even," he says, not shifting his gaze, "in ways we do not always want or appreciate at the time."

The loud click of footfalls on the tile floor of the hall catches her attention and Joan looks behind her. A burly uniformed school security officer approaches, his stride heavy and purposeful. Beside him a nervous older woman with a coat draped over her arm takes two steps for every one of his.

_The real substitute, apparently._

Sherlock comes to the door and sees them. Raising his eyebrows at Joan, he swivels around to the students seated in their desks and says, "Test tomorrow, class. Don't forget to study the notes I gave you today. And don't forget what I told you about the importance of being skeptical when presented with new information."

The uniformed officer comes to a stop, his hand resting on his taser at his belt.

"Sir, ma'am," he says without preamble, "come with me."

**A/N: I hope you enjoy this update! Thanks for letting me know!  
**


	7. The Principal's Office

**Chapter Seven: The Principal's Office**

**Disclaimer: I just play here!**

"Phlürb?"

Watson doesn't look at him directly, but Holmes can _feel_ her disapproval. No surprise. Here she sits outside the principal's office like some common miscreant waiting to be scolded. Probably not something she's used to.

He, on the other hand—

"Consider it a lesson in gullibility, Watson. Those students who were attentive when I cautioned them about taking everything they hear and see at face value have learned a valuable lesson."

"And those who didn't? Who took you seriously? They're going to waste their time studying something you made up—"

"When they realize their error, they _too_ will learn a valuable lesson."

Now she does look at him—one eyebrow lifted, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed.

Yes, she's annoyed. He'll make it up to her later.

The door to the principal's office opens and the security guard exits. A tall man with Asian features and neatly trimmed dark hair steps to the doorway and beckons.

"Come in," he says. "I just got off the phone with Captain Gregson. Your story checks out."

"A good thing for you that it does," Holmes says as he and Watson take seats facing a large desk in the center of the room. "Your security measures at this high school are woefully inadequate. The receptionist at the front desk let us in without checking any identification and we were free to wander this campus for 27 minutes before the resource officer located us."

"Yes, well," the principal says, blustering visibly. "We're understaffed right now. Budget cuts. We had to let one of our secretaries in the front office go—"

"Penny wise and pound foolish," Holmes says promptly. "Or to put it another way, you get what you pay for."

At his side Watson rustles, her chair squeaking slightly. She's still annoyed with him, apparently.

"Be that as it may," he hurries on, "I apologize for causing you and your staff any inconvenience. Ms. Watson and I are simply here to ask a few questions, if you don't mind."

The principal steps around the desk and sits in the large black chair behind it. The only thing on the desk is a nameplate that says "Dr. Harry Cho." The walls are almost bare, with a few framed diplomas and a lithograph of the exterior of the school.

"Go ahead," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the edge of the desk, his fingers steepled together.

"This is your first year at Midwood?" Holmes says.

"Yeah, I was the principal at Parkdale Middle School for three years before this. Why do you ask?"

"How well did you know Ethel Jefferson?"

Harry Cho takes a deep breath. "As well as I know any of the other faculty. She'd been here a long time. She didn't much care for me."

"Nor you for her."

"I didn't like what she represented. You know, the old school way of doing things, the resistance to change."

"Yet Mrs. Jefferson had been a successful teacher for years. Ms. Watson recalls being a student in her class in high school, an experience she found both pleasurable and enlightening. Perhaps Mrs. Jefferson was merely resistant to the idea of giving up a pedagogy that served her and her students well."

Leaning back in his chair, Harry Cho says, "Everyone can improve, Mr. Holmes."

"Is that why you gave her an unsatisfactory evaluation this year?"

"That information is confidential."

"Were you hoping that she would leave if you gave her a poor rating?"

"Mr. Holmes, I can't share personnel details—"

"Was Mrs. Jefferson openly critical of your leadership, Mr. Cho? Is that the real reason you gave her low marks on her teaching?"

"Evaluations are based on multiple inputs—"

"Were you afraid that Mrs. Jefferson's criticisms would influence the rest of your staff and hold you up for negative attention to your immediate superiors?"

"I've already told you that I can't comment—"

"Surely you can see that your actions look suspiciously like retribution against a veteran teacher, someone who commanded great respect and loyalty from parents and students in this community as well as the people she worked with. Here you come, a new principal, ready to institute school reforms of dubious validity—"

"Mr. Holmes—"

Watson's hand is suddenly on his forearm and he hears her murmuring, "Sherlock. Listen—"

"—and one of your most vocal critics becomes ill over the course of a few weeks and then dies from a particularly insidious form of poisoning. Surely you can see why a few questions are in order, Mr. Cho."

The principal's face is flushed, beads of sweat across his brow.

"What do you mean, _poisoned_? Who said anything about poison?"

Holmes shifts in his chair and tucks his arms to his side.

"The preliminary autopsy strongly suggests that Mrs. Jefferson was poisoned. When the report is finalized, I imagine the police will pursue that line of investigation with more vigor. However, as Ms. Watson and I are consultants, we are free to proceed now."

"You're accusing _me_?"

"No," Watson says, looking from the principal to Holmes. "We're just asking questions."

Harry Cho runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath.

"Look," he says, letting a puff of air out between his lips, "I admit she was a pain in the ass. She embarrassed me—and the school—when she wrote to the paper."

"When the _Times_ published the teacher rankings," Holmes says, and Harry Cho nods.

"She got a lot of publicity afterwards. Reporters came by; some parent group wanted her to help organize a protest at city hall, stuff like that. The superintendent told me he'd be happier if she moved on."

"So you rigged her evaluations to make it easier to fire her."

"No. I wouldn't do that."

"Forgive me for being skeptical, Mr. Cho," Holmes says, "but you just admitted that it was in your interest to get rid of her."

"I said she was a pain in my ass, but it's not that easy to get rid of veteran teachers. Once someone has continuing contract status, they have to do something pretty egregious to get fired."

"Molest a student, embezzle school club funds," Holmes says, and Harry Cho nods. "And in Mrs. Jefferson's case?"

"She was close to being insubordinate. Not enough to fire her outright, but enough to rate her down on her evaluations. She refused to take her students to the remediation lab."

"Why was she supposed to?" Watson says, and Harry Cho shifts his attention to her.

"Freshmen who score below proficient on the regents' exams in 8th grade do a computerized drill program once a week. Teachers get the scores at the beginning of the year and schedule time in the lab."

"Perhaps she thought she could help them more in her classroom," Watson says. Harry Cho shakes his head.

"She didn't have a choice. It's required. And then there was the whole newspaper thing. She made the district look bad."

"You mean she made the district's way of assessing teachers look bad," Holmes says, and Harry Cho swivels toward him. "That is quite a different thing."

"Nevertheless," the principal says, "I didn't do anything to hurt her. I'm not that kind of person."

Holmes hears a small intake of breath from his side—Watson undoubtedly rushing to reassure Mr. Cho—who does, indeed, act distressingly innocent. Standing up abruptly, Holmes says, "Every person is capable of harming another, Mr. Cho, if given the right motivation and opportunity. Good and bad are false dichotomies, at least when talking about human beings."

As he turns to go there's a scrape of the chair on the floor as Watson stands up. He slows down, waiting.

_One, two, three, four—_

Harry Cho is no fool. In fact, he's a smart man, judging by the B.S. _magna cum laude_ from the University of Pennsylvania prominently displayed on the wall behind his desk. On the opposite wall, in a place not in such clear view, is a framed assurance that he does, in fact, have an Education Specialist degree—but from a suspect online diploma mill. The absence of other items to personalize the room despite being the principal here for almost a full school year shouts out the man's insecurity about his position. Trouble with the district office? Certainly—if not while Mrs. Jefferson was alive, then looming if this investigation implicates him.

"Mr. Holmes!" the principal calls out as expected, and Holmes stops and turns.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Harry Cho says. "You have to believe me."

"What I _believe_ ," Holmes says, "is that someone murdered Mrs. Jefferson. You had both motive and opportunity."

"So did lots of other people," Harry Cho says. "You need to talk to them."

Watson glances at him and he gives her what he hopes is a clear signal to sit back down. She blinks once and does, Holmes sidling back to his own seat.

"You know something?"

The principal seems to pull into himself before answering.

"Not anything definite, but a hunch."

When he says nothing else, Holmes prompts him. "We're listening."

"You might want to check out the union rep," he says. "About a month ago they were arguing loudly in the teachers' lounge one day after school. I mean, more than usual. A real shouting match."

"The union representative frequents your school?"

"She's a teacher here. Sarah Burns. Teaches math."

"Do she and Mrs. Jefferson have a history of discord?"

"That's just it," Harry Cho says. "I thought they were good friends. Mrs. Jefferson was active in union politics."

"Perhaps the union didn't approve of her writing to the newspaper," Watson says, but Harry Cho dips his head and says, "No, they were upset with the _Times_ posting the teacher rankings, too. I don't know why they were arguing."

"Can we speak to this math teacher?"

Instead of answering, Harry Cho stands up and takes two quick steps to his door, pulling it open.

"What's Sarah Burns doing right now?" he says to the harried receptionist juggling her attention between another phone call and someone standing in front of her desk. Placing the phone receiver down, she taps on her computer keyboard for a moment and then calls out, "She's in a CP geometry class, but she has second block planning."

"Come on," the principal says, and Holmes stands and pulls Watson's chair back to help her up. "By the time I take you to her room, the bell will ring and she can talk to you."

"That won't be necessary," Holmes says. "Ms. Watson is an alumna. If you tell us where Ms. Burns' classroom is, we can make our way there."

"Sherlock—"

"Like riding a bike, Watson. You never forget. Or rather, like a baby duckling."

"What?"

"This building is imprinted on you, indelibly pressed into your memory the same way ducklings have no real choice in learning what their parents show them. I suspect that even without the room number you could make your way to the maths department."

"Mary—" Harry Cho says, and the receptionist, now with the phone receiver braced between her shoulder and her ear, anticipates his request and says, "Room D234."

"I can find it," Watson says to Harry Cho.

"See," Holmes says as they walk together into the hallways. "I have confidence in you, Watson."

"Calling someone a baby duck is not a vote of confidence."

Her words are at odds with her tone of voice, which he would characterize as teasing or wry. He'll have to consider that later, when he has more time.

Watson leads the way to the stairwell and begins to climb, Holmes trailing behind. At the top she pauses for a moment and considers.

"The math department used to be down this way," she says, pointing left.

"And it still is, judging from the walls."

He points to a large bulletin board that says, "Happy Pi Day, 3/14" with pictures of pies drawn underneath.

"Glad to see students utilizing visual puns as memory aids," he says as they pass.

Room D234 is at the end of the hall, and as Harry Cho predicted, they arrive as the dismissal bell sounds. Lifting his hand, Holmes cautions Watson as the door swings back suddenly and a barrage of students exit. When the throng trickles to a handful, Holmes presses forward, Watson almost literally on his heels.

A short woman with close-cropped gray hair stands at the white board, erasing it. Mrs. Burns—wearing trademark teacher clothes: worn pants and shirt two seasons out of style, her shoes flat and sensible.

Glancing up she says, "Can I help you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Joan Watson. We're consulting with the NYPD in the case of Mrs. Ethel Jefferson's death."

"The police?" Mrs. Burns says, setting the eraser on the white board tray. "Is something wrong?"

She looks so genuinely distressed that Holmes hesitates and looks around for Watson to answer. She's better at this sort of thing, at knowing how to deal with distraught strangers.

"There's a possibility that Mrs. Jefferson was murdered," Watson says, reading his intention. "We're talking to everyone who might have information we can use to find her killer."

Instead of answering, Mrs. Burns puts one hand to her chest, the other to her cheek.

"I—I—can't believe it," she says. Watson rushes forward and takes the teacher's arm, shepherding her to the nearest student desk. "I still can't believe she's dead, but I never thought—I mean, she was here one Friday and the next night she died at the reunion—"

"Yes, yes," Holmes says, "I understand it was a shock. However, as distressing as this is, I need to ask you about a verbal altercation you had with Mrs. Jefferson soon before her death."

The expression on Watson's face signals his failure at hiding his impatience.

Another thing to try to make up to her later.

Mrs. Burns leans forward and rests her forehead on the palm of her hand.

"Oh, that," she says, a note of weariness in her voice. "A stupid disagreement."

Just the kind of thing a perpetrator might say to diminish her part in a serious row. Holmes opens his mouth to say so but Watson speaks before he can.

"Can you tell us about it?" Watson says quietly, slowly. To Holmes' surprise, Mrs. Burns looks up and nods.

"I felt so bad about it," she says. "Ethel and I have been friends for years. Years! And we've never really had a serious argument before. She felt really strongly about this new teacher evaluation system—"

"The one that ranks teachers according to how their students perform on standardized tests," Holmes supplies, and again Mrs. Burns nods.

"Yes," she says, "Ethel wrote an opinion piece for the paper showing how you can predict a student's performance on standardized tests based on socio-economics. Middle class and rich kids score well. Kids living in poverty don't. That's true all over the world, not just here."

"Though many rich kids don't do well on those tests," Watson says. "And some poor kids do really well."

"As I have mentioned more than once, Watson," Holmes says, "individuals are not the same as averages. Individuals vary widely. You can only speak to trends and statistical constants when you aggregate them as a group."

Mrs. Burns props her chin on her hand.

"It's true that the tests are imperfect measures of achievement," Mrs. Burns says, "but the public demands accountability. Until we get a better instrument, we really don't have any choice but to tie student scores to teacher rankings."

"Of course you do," Holmes says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Some states have experimented with peer review evaluations that have been deemed both rigorous and valid without resorting to any standardized testing."

"Ethel would have agreed with you," Mrs. Burns says. "She was upset that the union made a deal with the school district to include student scores as part of the annual teacher evaluations."

"And that led to your verbal brouhaha."

"We had words. She accused me of selling out to the corporate reformers. In her piece in the newspaper she had some hard things to say about the union leadership. They were pretty unhappy with her."

"Unhappy enough to kill her?"

Sarah Burns' face blanches.

"We might have disagreed on policy, Mr. Holmes," she stutters, "but we were friends. We taught together for years. We worked the prom together, sponsored the quiz team together. Even recently, we headed up the school committee to choose new textbooks for the Common Core. I don't know anyone who would have hurt Ethel."

"And yet," Holmes says, "here we are. Someone did more than just hurt her. They silenced her, forever."

Mrs. Burns lowers her hand and sits back, breathing heavily.

"No," she says slowly. "I don't know anyone who would want to silence her that way. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"On the contrary," Holmes says, motioning to Watson to follow him to the door, "you've already been very helpful indeed."

The tardy bell must be imminent—the halls are practically cleared of students, teachers standing lookout in their doorways as he and Watson head back down the corridor.

"I don't get it," Watson says as she falls in step with him, "we didn't learn anything at all from Mrs. Burns. In fact, we haven't learned anything at all from anyone here today. I'd say this whole trip to school was a total waste of time."

"That's what your deductive powers have told you?"

"You can't tell me that either of the people we talked to seemed guilty," Watson says. "Not one. And not only that, their motives don't match the crime. Even if Mrs. Jefferson made someone mad or embarrassed them, she didn't do anything terrible enough to drive someone to murder!"

"For a moment there, Watson, I was worried that you might not have what it takes to be a detective after all."

He hears her give a little huff but he moves forward without making eye contact.

"However," he says, "your thought processes completely mirror my own. You are exactly right. Neither Harry Cho nor Sarah Burns is a murderer. Clueless, perhaps, or misguided, but not guilty of homicide. You saw their physical affect. They exuded guilelessness. And as you so aptly noted, they lack real motives."

Another huff from Watson.

"Like I said," she says, "a waste of time."

They start down the stairwell as the tardy bell rings, and by the time they reach the bottom, the hall is clear and quiet. Pushing the glass door into the office so they can sign back out, Holmes says, "Eliminating suspects is never a waste of time. Now we know where to look."

Pulling his nametag from his shirt, Holmes hands it to the bewildered receptionist. Watson does the same, though she lingers for a moment and says something to the receptionist before following him out the door.

" _You_ might know where to look," she says, catching up to him on the sidewalk, "but _I'm_ in the dark."

"It's elementary, Watson," he says, walking to the edge of the sidewalk and raising his hand to hail a cab. "We've had the necessary clues since we began this investigation. We just didn't know how to put them all together—until now."

**A/N: We're getting close! Thanks for hanging in there!**

**Oh, and about "phlürb." When my brother was a senior in high school he once convinced a group of freshmen to take notes about "phlürb" when the teacher asked him to watch his class for him while he ran off some papers. I twisted the Newtonian physics with some symbolism and** _**voila** _ **!—a memorable lesson! At least, I hope so!**


	8. Back to School

 

 

**Chapter 8: Back to School**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or profit from writing about them. Sadly.**

"Sign in, please."

The young woman wearing a monogrammed polo shirt points to a notepad on the desk. As Sherlock picks up a pen and leans down to write, Joan glances around the room. It's the cramped, crowded reception area of Kids Academy, a charter school for children in grades 5 – 8. On one wall is a banner saying _Welcome Charter School Educators._ On another wall is an even larger banner that says _Education Resource Fair_.

When Sherlock straightens, the woman points again, this time to the end of the table. Taking up a fat blue felt tip magic marker, Joan pulls off the cap and prints _Dr. J. Watson_ on a small rectangular name tag.

"Your turn," she says, handing the marker to Sherlock.

He holds it at eye level, miming a deliberate whiff while making a point of catching her eye.

"I appreciate this level of trust, Watson."

"You were never a huffer," she says, struggling to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. How like him to try to get a rise out of her just as she's trying to look serious.

Sherlock prints his name and peels the backing off his name tag.

"There," he says, pressing it to his shirt with a single-handed slap. "Now we are suitably camouflaged."

Turning to the woman behind the desk, he says, "Tell me, is Presano the only company demonstrating their materials at this fair?"

The woman frowns and shrugs, the look on her face suggesting she is more annoyed than anything else. Sherlock _can_ be annoying—but his question is innocent enough, and for once his manner is reasonably sociable.

He heads across the room toward an open door and Joan follows. A short hallway leads to a typical school gym, bleachers pushed back against the wall and the floor covered with tables sporting folding displays and stacks of books, papers, and computer monitors. Overlaying a mental grid on the room the way Sherlock has taught her for estimating crowds, Joan decides that no more than 50 people are present, including the vendors.

"You see the problem," Sherlock says. "For all intents and purposes, this so-called educational fair is really just a slick PR marketing scheme for a single company, Presano. They are the world leader in textbook sales, but they also make most of the high stakes standardized tests, software programs, and test prep materials sold in this country. They set up these fairs and invite educators tasked with purchasing materials for their schools."

"How's that a problem?" Joan says. "Why shouldn't people get a look at what they are buying first?"

"People should," Sherlock says, moving to a table where small computer tablets are set up to demonstrate a math game for young children. "But people at this fair see only Presano's publications."

Glancing around, Joan notes the names of several book companies.

"Not true," she says, nodding toward one of them. "I count at least five others."

With a dismissive shake of his head, Sherlock says, "All Presano imprints. Look inside any textbook and you will see a veritable trail back to them. The same is true for the new national curriculum called the Common Core. Presano wrote it and was paid handsomely with public money. Despite the fact that the Common Core has not been field-tested, the federal government is pushing for its implementation this next school year, worrying educators who say they need time to prepare their students for the new high-stakes standardized tests that accompany it. Guess which company created those standardized tests? And is also selling the vast majority of test prep resources to panicked teachers and students?"

"Presano?"

"I would applaud your power of deduction but the conclusion is so obvious than no one should be surprised."

Joan gives Sherlock a pointed frown as he leads the way to a display of bound workbooks. He taps the cover of one, his finger tracing the word PRESANO.

"So they are making a profit," she says. "I still don't see how that's a problem."

"You don't agree that a single company writing the national curriculum is a problem?"

They are standing in front of a large display of computer monitors flashing vocabulary drills. A young man in a suit and tie looks up from behind the table.

"Well," Joan hesitates, "when you put it that way—"

"Or that the same school reformers who have partnered with Presano to write the Common Core and the tests are predicting that large numbers of American children will fail them?"

Joan shifts her bag to her other shoulder and darts a glance at the young man obviously listening in.

"If the new curriculum is harder, then more kids will fail. That's to be expected," she says.

Sherlock's eyes go dark, the way they do when he prepares to press home a point.

"No one knows if the curriculum is harder. It hasn't been field-tested anywhere, remember? Yet its implementation is being rushed through. Mrs. Jefferson was concerned that high stakes standardized tests were being used inappropriately to judge teacher effectiveness. What will happen when more students—and therefore more teachers—are judged as failing?"

With an uneasy glance at the man behind the display, Joan steps away and Sherlock moves with her, his head cocked slightly to the side. When they have moved out of the vendor's earshot, Joan stops and says, "I don't know, but I have a feeling you do."

Sherlock pulls himself upright and angles himself to face her directly.

"When more students perform poorly on the Presano assessments, the media will jump on the story. _American public schools a massive failure_. And waiting in the wings will be the private schools and charter schools ready to save the children fleeing their failing traditional schools. Private schools, Watson, and for-profit charters run by those same corporate reformers who are pushing Common Core and more testing."

"You're saying that the same people who are making the tests are the ones who stand to profit when students fail them and leave the public schools."

"Rather like a doctor selling the medicine he prescribes for illnesses he diagnoses. A conflict of interest, surely."

"I thought you didn't believe in conspiracy theories."

Sherlock squares his shoulders and says, "Just because large numbers of people are pursuing the same strategy to a certain end doesn't mean they are conspirators. There's money to be made here, Watson, and money is a powerful driver of human behavior."

"And the guy we're here to see? Steve Colby?"

"A former sales rep for Presano, now working as the VP of marketing. His secretary said he'd be here. Look around and tell me if you see him."

"I have no idea what he looks like!"

As soon as she says it, Joan knows she's taken a misstep. Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.

"Okay, okay, I'll try to pick him out. What about that guy in the suit—"

She swivels around to consider the man she spotted earlier behind the display.

"Too young to be a vice-president in a major international company," Sherlock intones like a disappointed professor. Joan turns back around and starts walking, Sherlock staying at her elbow.

"Him," she says, gesturing toward a tall, paunchy man handing out keychains and other trinkets at one of the tables. From the corner of her eye she sees Sherlock opening his mouth to respond and she hurries on. "No, wait. A VP of a company wouldn't think it worth his time to hand out knickknacks. He'd be busy chatting up potential buyers or helping his vendors set up."

Sherlock's mouth closes again, like a fish—a good sign that she's on the right track.

Continuing down the line of tables along one side of the gym, she prepares to start up the next aisle when she sees a sandy-haired man about her age talking with a uniformed deliveryman pushing a handcart.

"There he is," she says, looking quickly at Sherlock for confirmation. He nods so slightly that she almost misses it.

"Very good, Watson," he says, "though it took you longer than it should have done."

Crossing her arms, she says, "One more in a series of backhanded compliments."

But Sherlock is already out of her orbit, zeroing in on Steve Colby like a hunting dog.

"Mr. Colby," he calls. The sandy-haired man looks up and smiles expectantly. "Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Joan Watson. We're working with the NYPD. We want to talk to you about Ethel Jefferson."

Steve Colby's smile fades immediately.

"The teacher who died? I heard about that. Who did you say you are?"

Even without all the practice in spotting deception Sherlock has insisted on lately, Joan would recognize Colby's discomfort.

"You didn't just _hear_ about it," she says. "You were there when she died."

"No," Colby says. He turns his attention to her. "I left about 9:00. She died almost half an hour later. Why are you asking?"

"Odd that you remember the exact time." Joan doesn't bother keeping the skepticism from her voice.

"I left early because I had to catch a plane the next morning. I remember telling my wife later when I read about it in the paper that I just missed being there when it happened. If you don't believe me, you can ask her."

Something about Colby's insistence doesn't ring true—or if it is true, is hiding something else. Joan flicks her eyes from Colby's face to Sherlock's and back again.

"Now," Colby says, "as you can see, I'm very busy, so unless you have anything else—"

With an abrupt snap of his head, Sherlock says, "Mr. Colby, did you know that Ethel Jefferson's death was a murder? Her autopsy revealed traces of two types of poison. One was fast-acting, most likely ingested shortly before she collapsed. According to witnesses, you handed her a bottle of water before you left for the evening."

Colby's face first blanches and then flushes red, a typical vasodilation stress response.

"What witnesses? What are you saying? That I killed her? You can't prove anything."

"I did mention that Ms. Watson and I are consulting with the NYPD. Even now they are looking through the surveillance tapes made in the gym the night Mrs. Jefferson was murdered. Perhaps you were unaware that public school properties are highly monitored, with multiple overlapping recording devices. A good thing the committee selected the school as the site for the reunion, wouldn't you say?"

"So I gave her a bottle of water," Colby says. "That doesn't prove I put anything in it."

"I also mentioned that Ethel Jefferson's autopsy showed evidence _two_ types of poison. On my recommendation, the police are now at your home with a search warrant, looking for traces of the slow-acting poison they found on the rim of Ethel Jefferson's coffee mug at school—a mug with PRESANO's logo featured on the side."

"This is ridiculous!" Colby says, starting to push past Sherlock. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Perhaps not to me," Sherlock calls after him. "But Captain Gregson is more insistent than I am. There he is, waiting to take you to the precinct for questioning."

To Joan's surprise, Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are indeed standing in the doorway leading out of the gym.

"How did you—" she says, turning to Sherlock, but she can tell from the absent look on his face that he's already bored with the case, that mentally he's raced on ahead to something else. Maybe later, after the perfunctory trip to the precinct to hear Steve Colby stumble and stutter through denials until the weight of evidence against him forces him to admit what he's done—maybe tonight over a cup of tea back in the brownstone, Sherlock will trace for her the last leg of the journey he took to uncover Steve Colby's guilt.

Or he'll insist that he doesn't need to, that she's fully capable of sorting out the truth on her own.

It's the highest compliment he ever gives her, really, refusing to show his hand before she's had time to puzzle out the cards for herself. Like all of his compliments, it frustrates her as much as it makes her feel valued.

But if it's the price of working with Sherlock, she's willing to pay it.

X X X X

Joan hands Sherlock a mug of tea and settles herself on the other end of the tatty sofa in the brownstone living room.

"Lemon verbena," he says, dipping his nose almost into the hot liquid. "You're asking about the lemonade served at the reunion."

Joan isn't sure whether to feel pleased that Sherlock has picked up on her hint or disappointed that he figured her out so quickly.

"Steve Colby made sure Mrs. Jefferson wouldn't drink it," she says. "You knew he was guilty as soon as the caterer said he paid for extra sweetener for the lemonade."

"I suspected," Sherlock says, "but suspicions are not proof. Until I pieced together the connection between Presano and education reform, I wasn't positive."

"Now you've lost me," Joan says, sipping her tea.

"Mrs. Jefferson was a vocal opponent of a key element of education reform—using standardized test scores to measure teacher effectiveness. In her piece that she wrote for the _Times_ , she warned that those scores were an invalid measure of student achievement. She also warned that those results were being used to judge teachers and schools as failing, calling down draconian responses from their districts."

"Firing the staff. Closing schools. I remember."

Sherlock lifts his hand and ticks up one finger after another as he speaks.

"Point: in her _Times_ piece, Mrs. Jefferson highlights what research shows—that wealthier children, for a variety of reasons, outscore poorer children on standardized tests. Point: in exchange for federal dollars, school districts put into motion federally mandated responses to schools with large numbers of students scoring below proficient on standardized tests. As you said, those responses include firing the staff and even closing schools. Point: charter schools and private schools stand to gain when traditional public schools are closed. Those charter schools and private schools are, by and large, run by the same people who make the tests that seem to indicate that the traditional schools are failing. Once I had all those facts together, it was a simple matter to decide that Steve Colby was our murderer."

Joan sets her cooling tea mug carefully on the arm of the sofa and shifts her position so that she is facing Sherlock directly.

"Wait a minute," she says. "Steve Colby is a VP at Presano. I see how he stands to gain if Presano sells more curriculum materials and tests. He probably gets a nice raise and other perks. But that's not the same as being someone who benefits when public schools are privatized. That seems like an impossible leap of logic to me."

"Well spotted, Watson. Indeed it would be. My deduction about Steve Colby is also based on his extra-curricular activities, so to speak. If you look closely at his _curriculum vitae_ which he lists on the Presano website, you will note that he serves as a founding board member for two for-profit charter schools in Michigan and Ohio, and he is a part owner of a company that runs charters in both states. Unlike Michigan and Ohio, however, New York does not allow for-profit companies to operate charter schools. A bill is before the legislature to change that law. Mrs. Jefferson was part of the local group opposing its passage, something she mentions in her _Times_ piece. If this market was ever to open up to charter entrepreneurs, she had to be silenced. Steve Colby did so."

The facts Sherlock states aren't surprising, but hearing them laid out this way makes Joan's stomach clench in anger.

"I still can't believe she's gone," she says, picking up her mug and cupping it in her palms, trying to find a measure of comfort in its lingering warmth. Suddenly she is very tired, the strain of the day catching up to her. Yawning, she stands and says, "I'm heading on to bed. See you in the morning."

"I'll be up earlier than usual tomorrow," Sherlock says, pointedly not making eye contact. "A job."

"Oh!"

A wave of hurt washes over her—and embarrassment, too. Sherlock has said nothing until now about an impending case—was clearly not intending to share it with her. And just as she thought he was starting to view her as an actual partner, someone he relied on as more than a mere sounding board. _So much for that_. She feels her cheeks grow hot.

Sherlock blinks and looks up at her.

"I would ask you to join me," he says, "but it would likely be a waste of your time."

He looks away again, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Since when have I ever thought an investigation a waste of my time!"

Her voice is so aggrieved that she flushes again, this time embarrassed at how petty she sounds, how entitled. If Sherlock doesn't want her assistance on a case, he certainly has the right to go it alone. She takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying to settle herself.

Sherlock snaps his gaze up at her.

"Oh, not an investigation, Watson. I wouldn't take a case without you. This is something quite different. Substitute teaching. The science teacher at Midwood called and asked me to teach his physics class tomorrow while he has some emergency dental work done. His students have been regaling him stories about phlürb since the last time he was absent. They were curious about a follow-up lesson. Couldn't really turn that down now, could I?"

He waits a beat and then adds, "Your choice, Watson, whether you join me or not. I'm certainly happier with your company than without it."

Like most of Sherlock's rare grace notes of affection, this one is lobbed so quickly and detonates so softly that Joan doesn't quite hear it until after he's already pulled his attention away. She stands beside the sofa a moment longer, her finger tracing the handle of her mug.

"Okay, then," she says. "I guess tomorrow we're going to school."

The End

**A/N: Please excuse this very tardy last chapter—real life got super busy and crazy this past month, but things have finally slowed long enough to write the conclusion to this story. What a pleasure it has been to dabble in the Elementary fandom. You are terrifically supportive readers and reviewers, and it has been my privilege to bring this story to you.**


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